


It Does Not Do to Dwell on Dreams

by Belladonna_Q



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Dream Sex, Gift Fic, M/M, Post-Finale, Season 2 spoilers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:45:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1746815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belladonna_Q/pseuds/Belladonna_Q
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What isn’t real?” He asks, eyes never blinking, not alive in Will’s dreamland. The only glint off Hannibal comes from the polished brass buttons of his pressed waistcoat and the slight shimmer from his glossy burgundy tie. </p><p>*This*. He thinks simply, and Hannibal descends.</p><p>----<br/>Post season 2 finale fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Does Not Do to Dwell on Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [berlynn_wohl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/gifts).



> Happy birthday Berlynn!

There is something horrific in how he wakes. A tight binding around his torso, already knowing, seeing without seeing, the coarse black stitches jutting out against his pale belly, seaming along the sides. The beep and whirr of apparatuses, running numbers on his carved form: pulse, heart rate, oxygen, morphine, blood pressure… He glances down; arms laden with leads and lines, a taut clip attached to a finger, the red-lit bulb of it the only light in the room.

It’s horrific as he wakes, that’s not what upsets him, his throat tight and eyes shiny in the dark.

It’s the fact that he wakes at all.

Not meant to be and yet, apart of the plan, he assumes. Always part of the plan.

Curved knife, shoved in his gut and twisted and he clung tight, amazed and oh, he was amazed. Hannibal’s illogically smooth palm cupping his face, fingers on at his sweat soaked hairline and then…The shark-eyes had blown wide and watered. That look of devastation, betrayal and wrath, coiled deep, never said aloud but spoken through Hannibal’s blade.

He glances to the corner, at the great beast, his nightmare familiar, curled and broken. Through shutters of streetlight he can make out the navy hue of its fur, the black of its plumage, its large head coiled atop its split hooves. Its last breath drawn on a bloodied tile floor and yet it still follows.

He drifts, eyes heavy. Disconnected and disengaged. The paralyzed hover of dreamscape.

There’s a delicate touch, and he opens slowly, not at all startled, nor surprised, to see Hannibal seated calmly on his bed.

 _This isn't real._ He thinks. He knows. And Hannibal smiles without teeth, leg bending and hiking, his tailored trousers creasing just so as he settles himself.

“What isn’t real?” He asks, eyes never blinking, not alive in Will’s dreamland. The only glint off Hannibal comes from the polished brass buttons of his pressed waistcoat and the slight shimmer from his glossy burgundy tie.

 _This._ He thinks simply and Hannibal descends.

Nothing hurts in dreamscape, and Hannibal peels back the blood-soaked bindings from his stomach. His belly concave, ribs protruding through his skin. He watches mutely; as the tasting kiss is pressed to his throat as Hannibal places a hand on his waist, thumb rubbing the dip of his hipbone.

A touch against sutures, a gentle tug that sends a thrill of alarm through Will’s spine. _He can_ , he thinks. Hannibal could unravel him once more, unthreading the binds that keep everything sealed inside from spilling out.

Hands on both sides of him, that blood-red silk tie draped across Will’s neck like a choker, Hannibal brushes lips against his temple, his hair, that deadly silent inhale of scents and Will’s belly aches as it quivers.

He closes his eyes as those large ( _illogically soft_ he thinks again, absurdly) hands sweep over his body. His thigh, his sides and he feels the wet roughness now of tongue and…

Pepper, raw sugar, sea salt… _a dry rub_ , smoothing over his flanks, granulated bits collecting to the creases of his inner thighs, of leg meat meeting hip bone. Salting him for a feast, preparing Will as his banquet, flayed out on the table spread. And Hannibal groans, a reverberation coursing from Will’s jugular notch to his sternum and his body clenches tight.

A shift, a sheet being opened, tenting between his legs, groin swelling as that large, obscene hand grips him, his throat clenches and the chilled air catches on his warmed skin. A shimmer, briefly of light, _his eyes_ , he realizes, _flickering_ , awareness trying to break in and awake him from this.

He breathes deep, calmly, heart rate lowering to remain in REM, something difficult, nigh impossible and yet, he is the dream keeper and Hannibal, the key master.

The great beast’s crumbled form breathes deep. 

**Author's Note:**

> belladonnaq.tumblr.com


End file.
